Reese's Pieces and Hershey's Kisses
by LilCosette
Summary: Alex reflects of Cam's last Christmas's. For pamalax's December challenge at livejournal


**Zero **

Cameron was almost a millennium baby. Pamela's contractions started on the fourth of December, only twenty-six days before the new year. We'd been expecting him to be born slightly later, but that evening, at exactly twenty-seven past eleven in the evening, Cameron was born.

It was his first Christmas. A Christmas full of sleep for our little boy, and loving coos from family members watching over him as we celebrated the holiday, bright lights flashing on the Christmas tree, wrapped presents bright below.

"Alex," Pam said to me as we rested our heads on each other's shoulders, watching the snow whirl outside, "I love you." There, without the aid of mistletoe, she'd kissed me.

That day we were indestructible. That day Pam and I held hands as she cradled the sleeping Cam in the crook of her arm, her face lit up with happiness. That day we thought nothing would ever change, that we could be that happy forever.

**One **

When he was one, Cam started to walk. Enticed by the Christmas lights, he'd squealed, drawing our attention to his fascination. He wasn't quite able to string words together, but gave a garbled message that incorporated the well-used words 'Mommy' and 'Daddy'. He was such a smart boy. Pam always said he took after me, but she was so much smarter than she ever gave herself credit for.

That Christmas we held hands, little Cameron in the middle of us, a tight package of three. Letting the time trickle away, we sat on the couch and watched the lights of the Christmas tree blink and dance, feeling the weight of Cam's head rest on my hip as he drifted to sleep between us.

Fingers interlaced we'd sat there for hours, not speaking but communicating in a way only people that are intimately linked can; telepathic connections that can mean that silence is more important than words.

**Two **

When Cam turned two, my double life began. I was his father, but I was also the gift giver, Father Christmas, Saint Nicholas, Kris Kringle. Santa. On Christmas Eve, two minutes to twelve when Cam was fast asleep, his soft breathing audible in the still quiet of the house, I'd slipped into the den. With an impossible silence brought only with the magic of Christmas, I set beneath our pine tree a tricycle that we'd wrapped to the best of our ability.

With the lack of a mantle, Pam had helped Cam to hang three red stockings on the only sturdy branches of the tree. These branches held them firmly and proudly even while I placed numerous Hershey's Kisses, small cars and coloured chalk in his, and into Pam's slipped a packet of Reese's Pieces and a slight silver chain, a tiny heart hanging from the thread. Concerned at the strange sight of my own limp stocking hanging from the tree while my wife's and son's bulged slightly, I'd placed a bar of Hershey's into mine and slipped back up the stairs to Pam.

She'd rolled over with a soft groan as I pulled back the duvet and slipped between the sheets. Smiling drowsily at me, she'd cupped my face in her hand. So close now, I had gently pushed wisps of her hair away from her eyes, and drawn her to me. There, as the clock clicked softly onto Christmas, we'd laid together in each other's arms and kissed.

**Three **

When Cam was three, I barely made it home for Christmas. The bureau had promoted me and I was forever at work or in the field. I missed Cam's birthday altogether, remembering too late that this was one day that I couldn't be at work. But I had a lead that day, and fugitives don't stop running just because their pursuer has to be home for his son's birthday.

At eleven o'clock on Christmas Eve, I'd clicked open the lock on the front door, balancing a box of gifts in my arms. I was tired from the strenuous events of the day, physically drained from running and chasing, and mentally exhausted from continuously having to predict the movements of my target.

Pam was sitting at the kitchen table, her head bent over a Christmas letter we'd received from some of our international friends. She'd looked up when I pulled the door open, her arms crossed before her on the table. She'd done her best to wipe the tears away, but her eyes were red and raw from crying.

"I'm sorry, Pam–"

She'd just shaken her head tiredly. "Go to bed, Alex. I'll play Santa for our son tonight."

Four 

On Boxing Day, four years after Cam had been born, I was only feet away from catching Oscar Shales. Dancing with him we'd been playing a game of mental work, both of us acting in delicate and premeditated movements. Seconds away from playing my most crucial piece, a piece in which I would have him from behind, weapon in his back and handcuffs at my side, my cell vibrated in my pocket. Focused only on Shales, I'd lost all sense of what I was doing physically, and I slapped my hand down hard on the offending object.

He'd disappeared, ran as I'd fumbled with my phone.

It was pointless to ignore it, Shales was gone and I already knew that there wasn't any point in following him. He knew exactly what he was doing.

It was Pam. Her angry and hurt voice rang out down the phone line, suddenly reminding me of the time I'd missed. Christmas.

Cam's birthday.

But I'd become obsessed. Unconscious of what I was doing, chasing leads and _playing_. Moving pieces around on this game board that I loved so much that I'd forgotten about my family. My wife. My son.

Five 

I spent the Christmas day on the year that Cameron had turned five alone, sitting at the window just staring at the white birdbath, an icy coat solidifying the water, snow piled atop it.

I'd come home on the eve to my empty house with whatever Pam had left of our Christmas decorations still laying neglected in the basement from last year. I hadn't had time to buy a tree, and there was no point in it anyway. There were no presents to pile beneath its bows, no red stockings to hang from the tree.

Memories of Pamela and Cameron laughing as they watched the snow fall gently outside, coloured lights twinkling upon the trees in the garden flooded my head. Simple memories of Pam slipping a piece of chocolate into her mouth slowly, long after Cam had gone to bed. She'd leant in close, brushed it against her lips and held it on her tongue, glancing at me with seductive eyes.

But it was gone. Everything I loved was gone because I'd become far too damn addicted to the dangerous game I'd been playing with Shales.

Never again. I swore I'd never let anything, or anyone hurt my family again.


End file.
